


i never got cold ( wearing nothing in the snow )

by toplinson (crybaby)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Jumping plot, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Rape of a Minor, Vague Sex, Warnings for possible triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:27:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crybaby/pseuds/toplinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Louis is summer; Harry is winter.</p>
  <p>Louis is summer in how he is the ocean, huge and alive and kinetic. Harry is a mere swimmer, jumping off the pier and into the blue depths.</p>
  <p>Harry is winter in how he melts under Louis’ summer touch.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	i never got cold ( wearing nothing in the snow )

**Author's Note:**

> Okayyyy.
> 
> So basically I am on a hiatus. I have a lot of writing to do, but I've got a lot of school related stress right now so I'm afraid I'm going to be on hiatus until May/Junish. I will still try to write and I have got full intention to continue Beneath Alexandria and I am so sorry for anyone who reads that.
> 
> I am hoping to return after exams and life has calmed but yeah.
> 
> I basically wrote this this afternoon while I put off studying and was having a very sad day. It's not like most stuff I've written but oh well.
> 
> Feedback is really appreciated 
> 
> Emma x
> 
>  
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR: mentions of incestuous rape, eating disorders, and somewhat self-harm.**
> 
> **DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone or anything.**

Louis is summer; Harry is winter.

****

+

****

Louis comes home in two days. Harry’s torn between panic and excitement. He limits himself to five cigarettes a day, has post-its stuck all around their small flat to remind him of two things. _Don’t smoke! Don’t forget to eat!_

****

It’s difficult. His stomach twists and he scratches his arms raw in anticipation, lips pulled somewhere between a smile and a grimace.

****

Candles burn throughout the flat, trying to hide the smell of smoke and smother it with the sweet smell of vanilla and sandalwood.

****

He pulls out his mother’s old cookbook, his heart pulling ever so slightly at the messy scrawl that used to sign his absentee letters and his homework diary and the note to get him out of phys-ed. He swallows it and starts practising so that he can make Louis a _welcome home!_ cake.

****

He gives his first few tries to his neighbours, trying to have a nibble himself before his stomach turns and he has to crumble it and set the saucer on his window sill for the pigeons.

****

+

****

Louis is summer.

****

Louis is summer in how his skin looks licked by the sun and his cheeks are lightly freckled. Louis is summer in how his laughter is the rush of the ocean, the waves; loud and rushing and it can drown you if you let it. Louis is summer in his chapped lips and his skin warm like summer sand. Louis is summer in how his eyes are blue like the sky some days and blue like the sea other days and blue like sun hitting seaglass most days.

****

Louis is summer in how there is so much to him; so much hidden beneath the light waves in the form of sunken ships and the colourful natives of the sea. Louis is summer in the way he speaks, high and loud like the cries of flocks of seagulls. Louis is summer in the sweetness of his kiss, just like a vanilla soft-serve in a candied waffle cone.

****

Louis is summer in how he is the ocean, huge and alive and kinetic. Harry is a mere swimmer, jumping off the pier and into the blue depths.

****

Louis swallows him whole.

****

+

****

Louis says he worries.

****

He says it when Harry makes him stay on the phone all night, just so he can fall asleep listening to him breathing so he knows he isn’t alone.

****

Louis says he worries when he thinks Harry’s asleep and Harry thinks he’s asleep but they’re both awake with what Harry thinks is an ache in his heart.

****

Louis tells him his worries and his hopes and he tells him he’s so sad that Harry’s so fragile and he tells him he prays for him every night.

****

+

****

Harry tries.

****

Every morning he wakes up and climbs in the shower, avoiding the mirrors before he stands under warm spray and tries to wake up. He uses Louis’ shampoo, like always, along with his soap.

****

He wraps himself in Louis’ jersey and pulls on jeans which he should have washed on Monday and he pulls his fluffy socks on so the hardwood isn't so cold against his toes.

****

He makes toast. A slice of wholewheat with strawberry or raspberry jam, depending on his mood. He dishes himself a half-serving of fruit-salad and yogurt and boils the kettle.

****

He has tea, yorkshire, black, like how Louis takes it.

****

He sits down on the patio to eat, the sky turning light and the rising sun marbling the sky in orange and fuschia.

****

He tries.

****

He sips his tea and takes small bites of his toast, eating chunks of fruit slowly and licking at a spoonful of yogurt before he stands up and takes his mug inside, leaving the half-eaten breakfast on the patio table.

****

The pigeons will eat it.

****

+

****

_“You’re getting skinny Harry. No one likes skinny boys. I don’t like skinny boys,”_

****

+

 

Harry kisses him and lets Louis hug him until he feels ready to snap in his strong arms when Louis gets the letter.

****

It’s only once Louis’ called all his family and all his friends and Harry is opening his mum’s old cookbook and selecting a cake at random that he pauses to think.

****

Cambridge and Germany are awfully far apart.

****

+

****

Louis always brings back gifts for his sisters and his friends and all sorts of foods. He brings back small chocolates for Harry, saying they’re too sweet to resist. Harry kisses him and eats them slowly while Louis soothes him with a hand on his knee to let him know he’s there.

****

+

 **  
**It was aSaturday.

****

Harry had lay in bed until half-ten, waiting for his father. It was unlike him, he’d always come to wake Harry up at nine sharp. He’d watched the clock as the weak sun and filtered through his open curtains.

****

There was no sound other than the hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the tick of his clock.

****

He’d waited.

****

Come eleven he’d gone to check.

****

In the living room ( _Harry thinks he found that ironic, but he was never good with irony_ ) his father sat lifeless, eyes open and watching the static of the television.

****

Harry had started to cry, happiness bubbling up through him.

****

+

****

His first work was published in the school newspaper.

****

His english teacher had submitted it without his permission and he’d just nodded slightly when she asked him if it was alright the day before printing.

****

It was a single stanza poem entitled _Gone_.

****

It wasn’t a big deal, but it had made him smile.

****

+

****

Louis notices because Louis always notices.

****

His smile is soft and he hugs Harry, kissing his sweetly and rubbing his hand up and down Harry’s back, his fingers pressing over the knobs of his spine.

****

Harry lets Louis take him, Louis hoisting him up and carrying him to their bedroom.

****

He lays him out, touching the soft white of his skin and pressing him open. Harry feels exposed and insecure and Louis kisses him all over, making him feel beautiful. Louis touches him soft and gentle like he’s glass or crystal, delicate.

****

Harry whines and gasps, as Louis presses in, kissing along his neck while one of his hard hands presses down his hip while the other presses over his ribs.

****

His fingers press over where his bones jut from his skin and Harry gasps while Louis strokes his side. Louis tells Harry he makes music more beautiful than any piano he’s ever played, pressing Harry’s ribs like the ivory keys of his piano. Harry’s cheeks colour from the feeling and the sentiment.

****

+

********  
  


Harry had been looking for an album.

****

He’d woken up with the memory of the cover, (blue with stairs he thinks, and a spotlight shone on a the person standing on them) and he’d slowly gotten himself dressed, eating half an apple before venturing out, head down.

****

He’d felt like all eyes were on him and he’d curled in on himself, resisting to the urge to scream I eat! I do! into everyone’s faces. He’d pulled himself into the first record shop he’d walked past, his cheeks coloring bright red when he bumps into someone on the way in.

****

It had been warm inside and there was music playing. He’d liked it, but he wouldn’t have asked, never.

****

He’d wandered through the racks of different albums and artists, looking for the cd cover with the stairs, thinking back to how his mum’s short nails has clicked against the case whenever she’d put the album on in the living room.

****

He’d looked through all the artists, all the genres and all the albums in the front of the shop before carrying on backward, deeper into the store.

****

He’d sifted through hundreds of plastic cases before there was a tap on his shoulder and Harry had startled and curled in.

****

“Anything specific you’re looking for, love?”

****

Harry still remembers his voice and how he’d sounded in that moment. His voice had sounded crackly and hoarse and there had been a hint of tiredness to it, but a huge touch of cheer covering that all.

****

Harry had shook his head but the single finger on his shoulder had turned into a warm hand to his shoulder and Harry had felt the warmth through his jumper and that’s when he’d first thought of summer.

****

He’d thought back to going to the white beaches of Italy with his mum years ago, the warm sand and the cool water and the blue sky and his basket full of seashells and seaglass. He’d thought back to vanilla soft-serve and sunscreen and seagulls and sand-castles.

****

( _“Doesn’t the sand feel amazing between your toes?”_ )

****

Harry had shook his head and gripped the plastic case tight while the warm hand (summer, sun, sand) had rubbed a small circle and the voice had hummed.

****

He’d nodded slowly and had turned slower.

****

He was beautiful.

****

+

****

Louis kisses his forehead and kneads his fingers into Harry’s sides, pinching the skin there and scratching at his scalp while Harry breathes into his neck. Louis massages Harry’s side, the warmth of his hand ( _summer, sun, sand_ ) coming to cup his arse while he shifts to slot his thigh between Harry’s.

****

Harry freezes up and pulls back, Louis sitting up and getting that look of his when Harry does something that worries him but he won’t ask about.

****

“I’m sorry,” Harry says smally, his cheeks colouring and his arms wrapping around himself.

****

“It’s okay, buttercup. It’s okay if you’re not ready,” Louis soothes, kneeling to get closer to Harry, trying to wrap him up in his arms so that Harry knows it’s okay, he’s okay, they’re okay.

****

Harry shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath as his fingers press over his ribs where he can feel them through his sweater (“No one likes skinny boys,”)

****

“I love you Louis,” he says on outbreath, Louis leaning into Harry and wrapping him up.

****

He kisses the top of Harry’s head, arms around his shoulders and scratching over his scalp, “I love you too buttercup, more than anything,”

****

Harry takes a deep breath in, the smell of Louis consuming him (soap, vanilla, moisturizer). He lets Louis hold him, lets Louis think that it’s his fault for a while. He clings to him and what he is, warm, strong, constant. “There’s something I need to tell you,” Harry says, barely, into his chest, his fingers already starting to shake.

****

Louis kisses the top of his head and nods.

****

So he tells him.

****

+

****

When Harry was younger, there was a small shop three blocks down that his mum used to take him to. She would stay in the front section, admiring the jewelry and perfume bottles, while Harry would drift to the back ( _“Try not to touch anything darling, mummy doesn’t want to have to pay for something broken,”_ ) and he would admire the china dolls on the rows of shelves.

****

They were beautiful and delicate, skin cold and light and cheeks rosy. Their eyes were bright and lined with short, curly eyelashes, their dresses beautiful and patterned. He would toy with them, running his small fingers over the lace of their petticoats and the fine plastic of their hair and the intricate design of their dresses.

****

There was only one male doll. His eyes were blue and his cheeks pink and his eyelashes dark and his hair chestnut and styled. His clothing was cream and blue, posh, beautiful. Harry had wanted him, had put him on all his wish lists, had even told the old shopkeeper to never sell him, not until Harry had enough money to buy it himself.

****

He would trace the lines of the doll and think to himself that one day he would own him before his mum was collecting him and taking him back home.

****

+

****

When Harry turned around and saw him, it was like a wave of nostalgia.

****

His cheeks were pink and his eyes were blue and his hair was chestnut and his eyelashes a were curly and thick and it was like he was looking at the face of the personified china doll, mixed in with his summer holiday with his mother in italy all those years ago (warmth, summer, seaglass)

****

He’d described the cd cover and stared into the man’s eyes (like the waves of the ocean, smooth and calm) and he’d smiled back at him (lips like strawberry soft-serve, his mum’s favourite) and he’d nodded, telling him to “go take a seat by the counter, I’m going to see what I can find,”

****

He’d come back with a stack of cases and he’d laid them down on the counter, Harry instantly snatching up the right one.

****

_The Lighthouse Family, Greatest Hits._

****

He’d left with the cd and the china doll’s number, pressed into his palm.

****

He doesn’t call.

****

+

****

His father was a mechanic.

****

He used to take Harry to work on Saturday mornings.

****

Harry would get dressed in his own navy jumpsuit, rolled up at the ankles and the wrists. He would sit on the counter and pass all the men the tools they needed, listening to _Bobby Vinton_ and _The Coasters_ and _The Kingsmen_ from the small radio while the men fixed different cars and chugged gold-label beers.

****

The men would all ruffle his hair and pinch his cheeks and they would all sneak him sips of their beers, getting Harry to smile wide and laugh at everything they said and did.

****

+

****

He remembers finding the first tissue with blood splattered it. He’d written it off as nosebleed.

****

+

****

It happened on his mum’s seventh admission to hospital.

****

He’d screamed.

****

He’d cried.

****

He’d given up.

****

His father hands had tasted like metal coins.

********  
  


+

****

Louis is careful their first time, almost as nervous as Harry now that he knows.

****

His fingers are gentle and he traces patterns into Harry, letting him know he’s there the whole time. He kisses him and calls him beautiful, calls him pretty. Harry blushes and gasps and Louis kisses them down.

****

Their fingers tangle and Harry sweats along his hairline and his fingers slip and Louis is panting against his ear and mumbling words of soothing to him and Harry feels alive, feels on fire, feels limitless.

****

Louis kisses him sweetly and his hips are slow and gentle but hard and too much and it’s perfect and Harry feels so sensitive and so good and he’s hiccuping and there are tears in his eyes and he pleads for Louis to keep going when he stops and shows that look of worry while Harry lets his tears spill and flutters his eyes at the feeling of Louis sucking onto his neck.

****

Louis draws them a bath after climax, adding bubbles to the warm water and leading Harry into the water on his shaking legs, pulling Harry to his chest and scrubbing over his flushed chest with a damp flannel.

****

Harry pants and sags against him, the steam and the heat making him thirsty so that Louis jumps out the bath to get him a glass of cold water. Harry sips at it while Louis massages strawberry shampoo into his hair and rubs over every inch of his tender body.

****

Louis dries his hair and dries him off and tosses their sheets from the washer to the drier before they fall asleep on the plush of their brand-new couch.

****

+

****

Louis says that he’s winter.

****

Louis says that he’s winter in his white skin, as pale and unblemished as freshly fallen snow. He’s winter in how his skin is always cold from his bad circulation, like he’s been outside in the cold and forgot to put his gloves on. How his cheeks are always pink that he’s been playing in the snow and giggling non-stop. He’s winter in his bones made of ice and his eyes wide like the green of the grass poking through the snow.

****

He’s winter in how his embrace is warm like stepping back inside after the cold wind, in how his kiss is like hot chocolate by the fire, sweet and hot. He’s winter in how he melts under Louis’ summer touch.

****

(Harry always tells him he’s silly and if anything, he’s winter because of how much he cries)

****

+

****

Harry’s father’s hands were always hard and calloused and they always bruised.

****

+

****

Harry tries, he really does.

****

He just wants to make Louis proud. He just wants to make Louis smile.

****

He eats as much as he lets himself. He eats, he eats, he eats.

****

He’s in constant battle with himself. He wants to eat, he wants to have chubby hips and a bum like Louis’ and doughy thighs, but with every bite there’s the voice, the disgusting commanding tone.

****

( _“You’re getting skinny Harry. No one likes skinny boys. I don’t like skinny boys,”_ )

****

+

****

Harry always cries when Louis leaves.

****

Louis wheels his bag to the front door and shoves his keys into his pocket while Harry makes them tea (when Louis’ there, he takes it with milk and two sugars, but when he’s gone he takes it like Louis’)

****

Louis will leave his shoes by the door, putting off putting them on because he knows it makes Harry panic.

****

He’ll put on _Lady and The Tramp_ because that’s their film. Harry is his beautiful, delicate Lady and Louis is his scruffy, excitable Tramp.

****

Harry brings their tea and cuddles into Louis’ side, his fluffy socks rubbing against Louis’ bare feet. Louis wraps his arm around Harry’s dainty frame, swallowing him in his hold and keeping him warm and stable.

****

Harry cries when Louis takes his mug and toes on his shoes, every time.

****

Louis kisses his forehead and his cheeks and his trembling lips, mumbling encouraging words over and over until Harry’s tears dry to tracks.

****

He leaves quick and painless at the sound of the taxi and Harry locks the door behind him with a sob that gets muffled by his wrist as soon as he’s gone.

****

He cuddles into where Louis had been sitting on the couch, feeling the warmth from where his body had been.

****

And then he starts eating away his sadness, chewing down slices of his cakes and eating all the leftovers from Louis’ goodbye dinner before he’s curled up in the corner of their kitchen, shaking and bursting and full.

****

It all ends up down the toilet moments later, the taste of bile on the back of his tongue.

****

+

****

He spends days with his notebook, only leaving the house to attend his english lectures at UNI the block over.

****

He goes through two pens and one and a half notebooks, a poem for each page. Some are raw and vulnerable, others twisted. He writes about his mother and his father and his aunt but mostly about Louis.

****

Once he’s finished the second notebook, he rips out his favourites and folds them neatly in halves before slipping them into an envelope.

****

He leaves the flat to post them, scared of people looking at him (“No one likes skinny boys,”) and judging him (he eats, he eats, he eats)

****

+

****

The first time he hears Louis play is their fourth date when Louis invites him to his flat for brunch.

****

His hand is poised to knock when he hears the melody through the door, tinkling and light and he pauses and listens. It carries deeper, heavier, before it comes to a close and Harry takes several moments to collect himself before finally knocking.

****

Louis opens the door with a smile and a hug that makes Harry tense only slightly. His flat is bigger than Harry’s dorm room, only a block away from his campus and close to where they’d first met at Louis’ place of work.

****

They eat on the patio and Harry offers to clear the table but Louis takes his hand and laughs.

****

“The pigeons will get it,”

****

Harry nods and Louis takes him inside and he plays for him.

****

+

****

Louis starts packing a week before he leaves.

****

He leaves the suitcase open in the corner of their bedroom so that if he thinks of anything, he can just throw it in.

****

Harry tries to be happy for him because this is what Louis’ been working towards all his life, this is a big deal. He should be happy that Louis’ dreams are coming true.

****

And it isn’t too far. It’s only about an hour by airplane, and nine by car. But money is tight, and they have no money for travel when Harry’s only just getting by, even with scholarship, and Louis is now going to be attending one of the top musical academies.

****

Harry knows Louis will only be able to come over every few months with the money he’s going to make from the job he’s already secured in Frieburg and the money Harry gets from his aunt.

****

Louis tells him not to cry while he packs his clothing and leaves all Harry’s favourites. Harry sits in the centre of their bed, knees drawn to his chest with his chin resting on his knees while Louis packs Harry’s soap and shampoo and leaves his own for Harry.

****

Harry holds him close every night until he has to leave, refusing to let him go until Louis is prying him off and wiping away his own tears.

****

Louis claims Harry’s body before he goes, going slow and praising Harry throughout until he knows Harry will feel it for a day at least. Harry sucks bruises into his skin and scratches up and down Louis’ golden back until there are dark red lines and he’s covered in Harry’s kisses.

****

+

****

His father dies from stroke, they tell him.

****

They all seem weary of his lack of sadness.

****

+

****

Louis prays every night, eyes closed and palms pressed together.

****

He wears a crucifix, silver and shining against his skin that hangs between his collar bones.

****

He was brought up in an anglican home and he still reads the bible when he has the time and attends church on the important days or if he doesn’t have coursework.

****

He once asked Harry’s religion. Harry answered that he was atheist.

****

He stopped believing in God in the second year after his mum’s death, when still, after him praying for help every night, no one answered.

****

+

****

Harry had saved up his milk money for months until he’d had enough to buy the china doll. He’d bounced on the way to the shop.

****

When he’d got there, there was a new woman at the front. The other, old shopkeeper had passed.

****

The new woman had sold his doll.

****

+

****

When Louis’ home, Harry always wakes up early and makes pancakes.

****

He likes Louis to wake up to the smell of cooking and tea and coffee and soap so that maybe, just maybe, he’ll decide he doesn’t want to leave.

****

Louis always comes to crowd his space, wraps his arms around his waist and kisses his neck while Harry stacks pancakes on a platter and sifts through their cupboards for something to make as a syrup.

****

Louis kisses him after with sweet lips and morning breath before they climb in the shower together with Harry to Louis’ front and Louis lathering his skin.

****

+

****

Harry always feels like the distance is so much harder on him than it is Louis.

****

The distance is far too large to be made up with phone calls and skype calls and missed calls and Harry always feels pathetic in the months of Louis’ absence.

****

They skype every few days and Harry always tries to sit where the light doesn’t show the bags under his eyes and the bloodred of his lower lip from his nervous habit. Louis always looks good and healthy, voice loud and boisterous and he has a roommate with a loud laugh and an Austrian name who wears a lot of bright beanies with bobbles on the head and a scruff on his chin who always disrupts their calls to make Harry laugh.

****

Louis has new friends who he introduces to Harry though webcam and Harry sits awkwardly on their bed, his sweater hanging looser around him than when Louis left and he can see the worry in Louis’ eyes as his friends tease him over his blush.

****

Harry digs his nails into his palms while he talks with Louis’ crazy friends, keeping eyes on the beautiful boys in his room and wondering if Louis would ever leave him for one of them. He hopes not, more for his own sake than for Louis’.

****

Harry smokes at the mere thought of Louis leaving him, burning candles to get rid of the cloying smell.

****

Louis calls everyday, right before he goes to bed. He asks about his day and his classes and asks about his poetry and his literature classes and his professors and Harry asks about his compositions and if he’s practising enough and there’ll be a moment of silence before Louis’ asking him how much he’s eaten and Harry lies and pulls the sleeves of Louis’ shirt over his fists.

****

He snuggles into Louis’ side of the bed and listens to his voice and breathes the scent of his pillow and he keeps himself calm, mentally counting the days until Louis’ next visit before he lets himself fall asleep.

****

+

****

The bedding is new and stiff and his aunt is jittery and offers him hot chocolate every few minutes. All his belongings are packed into the two boxes next to the bed of the spare room ( _“It’s yours now,”_ ) and he peels away the duct tape and starts at unpacking all his stuffed animals, setting them around the room before he’s peeling back the unused duvet and climbing into bed, still in his clothing in the early afternoon.

****

He hopes his aunt will understand that he just wants to sleep.

****

+

****

Winter had always been Louis’ favourite season, he tells Harry.

****

He used to love building snowmen and snowball fights and warm drinks and fires and woolen scarves and jumpers and just everything about the season.

****

+

****

He tried to explain it to Louis once when Louis had splurged on expensive wine and they’d both gotten more than tipsy after Harry’s dinner.

****

It’s kind of like Harry and Louis both have matching jumpers, made from the same ball of wool. It’s like whenever Louis moves away from him, the thread unravels and forms a thin lead between them, the jersey wearing away.

****

The thin thread carries out their flat and down the streets and through the air and over the ocean and onto new land and onto Louis’ campus and into his dorm and into his room only to connect back at Louis’ sleeve.

****

And while they both unravel to make sure that thin thread stays, filling the distance between them, it always feels like only Louis’ sleeve is unravelling from the distance while Harry’s jumper is unraveling completely, leaving him bare and exposed back home, stretched and abused just to stay with Louis.

 

Louis hadn’t understood or remembered, had only kissed Harry and told him he loved him before he’d pulled their spare blankets from the cupboard and the duvet from the bed and convinced Harry into sleeping outside on the patio.

****

+

****

He remembers when his teacher had submitted his works to a publisher and he’d gone home and told his aunt.

****

She’d asked to read them and had hugged him tight afterwards, reading the purity of his words. Harry had smiled and blushed at her praise.

****

One poem had been published with a group of other young authors, but it was something. His aunt had bought two copies of the book just so she could have it, proof of Harry’s published work. She’d even given Harry a sip of sparkling wine as celebration.

****

+

****

Everyday Harry sets a goal.

****

It’s often something like _smile at seven strangers today_ or _try not to shiver when a male looks at you_ and he writes them down on a post-it and sticks it where there isn’t one already. Louis asks him to keep them up so he can see when he gets back, so in the months of his absence the walls always fill up with fluorescent slips of paper.

****

More often than not, his goals are about food.

****

He wants to eat over one thousand calories or he wants to gain two pounds or he wants to eat two slices of toast. He succeeds sometimes, others not.

****

He weighs himself every morning, every afternoon after his morning lecture and every night before he goes to bed to check for change, only to find the same number or a number lower than the beginning and he chews on his lip and scratches his arms and wishes for Louis but he knows Louis would be disappointed and he just wants Louis to be proud, he just wants to tell him, to show him, that he eats (he eats, he eats, he eats)

****

He digs his nails into the flesh of his forearms, scratching until the pale skin is red and splitting under the blunt torture.

****

There’s no point in blades nor knives nor lighters, his nails are enough punishment, digging into his skin so he knows he’s done wrong.

****

+

 

"Don't do that," Louis tells him, Harry sitting on the counter in his dorm room with a cigarette about to be lit between his lips. 

 

Louis' hair is rumpled and his eyes are bleary and he should be sleeping but he plucks the cigarette from between Harry's lips and sets it down, pulling on Harry's wrist so he'll come back to bed because Louis can't sleep if he isn't cuddled around Harry.

 

+

****

The second time he bumps into Louis, it’s accidental in a close coffee shop and Harry’s antsy from being surrounded by so many people.

****

He orders green tea and he’s turning and the person behind him is closer than expected and the mug is slipping from his hands and shattering and boiling tea is splashing down his front and the front of the man behind him and he gasps at what would be a burn had he not been wearing so many layers before a barista is running with a towel and another to clean the mess and Harry’s meeting eyes now the colour of the sky in Italian summer.

****

He ( _“Louis, remember? From the record store?”_ ) pays for the damage and a second mug of tea and he orders his own tea and Harry waits next to him like a child until he’s served again and he goes to sit by himself but Louis sits with him and Harry looks down into the light green of his tea and stirs away the leaves.

****

“You never called,” he starts and Harry stutters inwardly, knowing this can’t end well.

****

His foot taps under the table as he warms his palms against the mug. “Bad circulation,” he says more to himself than to Louis, ignoring his question completely, his cheeks getting hot from embarrassment and all his layers piled over one another.

****

He meets Louis’ gaze and it’s warm and light (summersummersummer) and it’s nothing like it should be, not after he’s inadvertently rejected the man and spilt scalding tea down his chest, the mark still dark on his shirt.

****

In the end, he leaves after Louis tells him that they’d just been on their first date, smile on his face.

****

+

****

When Harry gets his letter, he cries.

****

A scholarship. To Cambridge. For english. He cries and he sobs and he visits his mum’s grave and talks to her tombstone non-stop for hours about it.

****

(not his father’s grave, never his father’s grave)

****

+

****

He sleeps over at Louis’ flat once, before he knows.

****

Louis wakes him from one of his night terrors, scared and confused. Harry feels ashamed and slips on his shoes, pulling all his coats on over his pyjamas.

****

Louis apologizes over and over and Harry wants to scream that it’s not his fault but his cheeks are red from shame and his eyes are wet and he feels stupid and he rushes out before Louis can even fully get out of bed.

****

He tells him about his night terrors a week later. He tells them that he often gets violent and he screams and cries and thrashes during them, but it’s best not to wake him up, or so his aunt says.

****

Louis’ eyes are full of questions but he nods and agrees to it all just so Harry comes back and sleeps in his bed again, saying that his bed was cold without him. Harry thinks about how flawed the statement is but accepts it.

****

+

****

Harry was bullied in school.

****

Nothing too bad, just crude names from classmates about his “love for cock” and how much he adored “taking it up the ass”. There was a push into a locker here and there and scraps of paper thrown into his hair every other lesson, but in the end nothing is ever really that bad when compared to being raped by your father for three and a half years.

****

He didn’t need friends, he had more than enough stuffed animals to keep him company and listen to him when he needed to talk.

****

+

****

He comes top in the class for all his subjects, his nose always buried in a book so he doesn’t have to pay attention to anyone around him or his hand crawling messes of words wherever he can when he’s not allowed to read.

****

He writes his first notable short story in year ten and he gets a mention in the school assembly for it, as well as his teacher recommending he take part in the national English Writing Olympiad.

****

Harry agrees and takes the permission slip home to his aunt.

****

+

****

It’s around Christmas when his mum finally passes away.

****

The actual day of celebration is spent with him in tears and his father disciplining him, his own tears fresh in his eyes.

****

Harry screams and cries and his father’s hands taste like sanitiser.

****

He doesn’t celebrate Christmas again until he meets Louis.

****

+

****

The first time Harry travels to Germany, it’s for Louis’ recital.

****

The campus is large and alive and Harry feels small and out of place until Louis is hugging him and he’s whole again and he’s crying without realising and Louis is guiding him back to his dorm room.

****

He meets his friends and they’re loud and they pull his hair and pinch his cheeks and offer him alcoholic concoctions and Louis’ roommate loudly proclaims that he’s going to bunk next door with an obnoxious wink that turns Harry pink, his hands shaking slightly in Louis’ grip, while Louis just shows them the middle finger and tells them to all piss off!

****

He lays Harry out on the small bed, like he does the first time he sees him after they’ve been apart so long. He kisses him beautiful until Harry can feel how Louis feels.

****

Louis kisses like he plays, full of emotion and raw with passion. He makes love to Harry like how he presses down against the ebony&ivory of his piano. He’s composed pieces about Harry and whenever Harry hears them, he’s brought to tears and shocked that someone finds him worthwhile enough to write something so pure and beautiful about him. He’d never really understood what Louis was saying until he’d shown him completely in how he’d kissed him and filled him, biting his shoulder and squeezing his barely-there waist.

****

Harry is what Louis plays about; Louis is what Harry writes about.

****

+

****

Harry notices on their second date while Louis pays the bill that he’s a pianist. His wrist falls delicately, his index finger raised away while he reaches for the pen. Harry can see it in his hands, nails trimmed meticulously and palms moisturized, that it’s what he loves.

****

Harry wonders if Louis can tells he’s a writer through his messy hair and the dark bags under his eyes and his blunt fingernails and the ink smudges on his fingertips. He wonders if his passion if obvious.

****

Louis pays with a smile and Harry feels a twinge of guilt because the restaurant is expensive and he hardly ate any of his meal, no matter how much he inwardly shouted at himself to eat more.

****

+

****

When he was eleven, his father started to feed him more.

****

He’d heaped his plate high and fed Harry portion after portion of unhealthy food. Harry knew how much he loved his thighs and how they wibbled when he walked and how his tummy curved out and his father fed him so there was more of him, more soft flesh to mark.

****

Food became Harry’s crutch.

****

It was only when he was twelve that he came to the conclusion that if he stopped eating his father would never want him. No one would ever want him. He would be free.

****

“No one likes skinny boys. I don’t like skinny boys,”

****

+

****

Somedays, when Louis isn’t there, all Harry wants to do is crawl out of bed and collapse on the patio. He just wants to lie there until death.

****

It’s okay, the pigeons will get him.

****

+

****

After his mum dies, Harry spends the time in his head playing a loop of _Ain’t No Sunshine_. His life turns dark and the sky stays grey and it rains too often and the snow isn’t white anymore, only ever grey sludge. His world turns to black and white and the shades in between and he spends his days longing for death.

****

His life brightens ever so as he grows, but he’s still stuck in the lapse of colour. The only colour he ever sees is in writing or his memories.

****

And then he meets Louis.

****

Louis who would be painted in bright, vivid blues and warm, golden browns. Louis whose laugh can fix any problem and whose voice can pull him from the dark depths of his mind. Louis who plays the piano for him and writes music about him, for him, to try and show Harry that he loves him.

****

Louis is one thing that brings some colour back into the darkness of Harry.

****

+

****

Louis’ birthday is on Christmas Eve.

****

As a child, Harry had sworn never to celebrate again. But then he meets Louis and he finds himself decorating the tree and wrapping up small gifts and baking cookies just to make Louis smile. Louis does.

****

His first Christmas is sweet, still with the after-taste of liquor from Louis’ twenty-fourth birthday soon replaced by the sugar of gingerbread-men and candy-canes.

****

Louis invites his family over and Harry shakes with nerves and Louis invites his best friends over and Harry’s overwhelmed but holds up and he cooks and his stomach grumbles and all he wants to do is eat as comfort and starve to stay strong but Louis comes into the kitchen and kisses him against the fridge and it’s alright, he’s alright.

****

He brings out Christmas lunch and he feels like all eyes are on him as he nibbles (He eats! He eats! He eats!) at his meal.

****

Louis’ hand is warm ( _“Doesn’t the sand feel amazing between your toes?”_ ) and Harry feels alright.

****

They make love on the couch, now worn in, the fairy lights illuminating the dark. Louis is hot and his lips taste like stuffing and sugar and warm milk and they have to be quiet because Louis’ best mate, Daphne ( _“Harry! Great to see you babes! Have you put on some weight? Good on you hun,”_ ) is sleeping in their bed.

****

Harry comes with a gasp of _Louis_ while Louis sucks into his neck and Harry sags. Louis’  christmas present to Harry of a _yin_ ( _dark, winter, matter, cold, death_ ) necklace lying between his collar bones, Louis’ own matching _yang_ ( _light, summer, spirit, warmth, life_ ) dangling with his crucifix.

****

+

****

On cold days, Louis likes to spend the full day with Harry in his arms.

****

When mist fills the skies, he likes to wake early and wrap Harry in his clothing before pulling him to the couch. He likes holding Harry, making sure he’s still there and that he hasn’t left him yet. He likes to feel him, solid, against him. He likes to trace his fingers over the messy scars along his inner forearms from where Harry hurts himself, just to let Harry know he loves him.

****

He likes to pinch at Harry’s milky thighs, so that Harry knows he’s not just skin and bone. He likes to lay his fingers over his ribs, so that Harry is his piano. He likes for Harry to feel loved in his grasp, wrapped in his woolen jumper and those fluffy socks of his, his legs bare and milky and delectable.

****

He likes to make Harry feel strong and loved, likes encouraging him to eat small bites and he tries to make him see that he understands when Harry can’t do it.

****

He still remembers in full detail how Harry had walked into the record shop on a gloomy day, his head down and shoulders hunched and the sharp knobs of his spine visible through his shirt. Louis had watched him, his mind already working out which melody would describe his steps and his persona and his enigma perfectly.

****

His heart had thumped in his throat when he’d approached him and he still remembers how cold he’d been beneath his touch. He remembers pretending to look for The Lighthouse Family album just to make him stay longer and he remembers how his hands had shook as he wrote out his number.

****

He remembers how Harry’d spilt tea down his front and how he’d had a rash for days to follow but he didn’t care because he was sure he was in love.

****

He remembers how Harry hadn’t eaten and how ashamed he’d been and how Louis hadn’t cared, to in awe of the fallen angel sitting across from him.

****

He remembers how happy he’d been when Harry first stayed over, wrapped in matching flannel pyjamas with fluffy socks and fluffy hair and how Louis had woken to him screaming and his heart had torn at the edges and how Harry had pushed him away.

****

He remembers Harry moving in, his books sharing space with Louis’ vast music collection on his shelves. He remembers the new collection of stuffed animals that found home in the sheet cupboard. He remembers kissing Harry in their bed.

****

He remembers telling Harry and how he’d thrown up once Harry had cried himself to sleep against his chest and he’d carried his fragile form to their bed.

****

He remembers making love to Harry for the first time, slow and desperate and how wide and bright Harry’s eyes had been and how he’d cried and Louis had started writing a composition about the experience as soon as Harry had drifted off.

****

He remembers every moment with his Harry, has it stored in glass bottle on the shelves of his mind.

****

Harry never believes him when he tells him and Louis doesn’t mind really, as long as Harry stays his.

****

+

 **  
**Louis is Harry’s summer; Harry is Louis’ winter.


End file.
